


a primer for the small weird loves

by decinq



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6588991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack texts, <i>miss u</i>, and Bittle responds instantly. <i>I miss you too.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	a primer for the small weird loves

**Author's Note:**

> i would like to give a blanket warning for some of the harsher trains of thought in this, with specific regards to Being In The Closet. also, there is a use of a homophobic slur on the ice between two players. title from a richard siken poem of the same name.

Jack goes to say, “Love you,” but gets interrupted, swallows hard. His fingers are cold, as always, but his palms sweat when Alexei says his name. It’s hard listening to everyone refer to Bittle as Jack’s girlfriend, hurts his stomach, makes him feel guilty and selfish and alone. 

 

He had a hard morning, doesn’t know how to say that through a phone and so he calls about the key instead. It’s a good excuse because it gives Jack time to listen to Bittle’s voice. The conversation gets away from Jack, just like this whole thing has--speeds out of his control so fast that the words are out of his mouth before he thinks them. Alexei shouting at him across the hallway maybe saves his ass, because over sentimental words won’t cut the distance between them, won’t make it easier, won’t change the fact that there are no out players in the League. 

 

It won’t fix anything.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

The most important thing Jack learned when he overdosed was that no one can take away your right to fuck up your own life.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Jack’s lonely, but he can’t tell anyone about it without outing himself. It’s hard, and Jack doesn’t want to admit that either. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

Here’s what hiding does:

 

Hiding sinks its teeth into Jack’s skin and bites down hard. Hiding wraps its hands around Jack’s neck every time he steps out of his apartment, but never squeezes. It’s a warning, fingers wrapped around Jack’s airways:  _ this could kill you if you aren’t careful. _

 

Hiding makes Jack a liar, and if Jack hadn’t already known about his own seedy underbelly, hiding would have made that clear, too. 

 

Hiding is a bastard and Jack doesn’t know how to bring it up, the Skype sessions a shitty substitute for falling in love. Jack misses Bittle down in his stomach, and it isn’t something he expected but it’s easy to accept nonetheless. The way his empty apartment feels and the way his skin is turning pale with the onset of autumn makes his chest tight. His loneliness turns to silent anger, and he’d spit in the closet’s face if it had one.

 

Bittle texts, and Jack texts back. Jack calls and they Skype and Bittle express ships Jack a pie on a rainy Wednesday, and Jack loves him. Hiding keeps up with its job of ruining Jack’s life without causing any noticeable damage. Jack keeps hiding, because he doesn’t know how to weigh the options--is afraid of what he’ll see if he puts hockey on one side of the scale against Bittle. Doesn’t want to know how they’d measure up, against each other. 

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

Jack texts,  _ miss u _ , and Bittle responds instantly.  _ I miss you too. _

  
  
  


 

 

 

On his worse days, Jack isn’t sure if it’s worth the risk. He knows it’s not really about the things he can measure: he knows what people would say and he knows what the headlines would read. It’s not about the hard facts of it all. Jack’s gay, has been for as long as gay was a thing he knew he could be. That’s a fact that he can wrap his head around, that the media could wrap its head around too. 

 

The real problem is that Jack is immeasurably afraid.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

Jack takes a stick to the eye in a game against Philadelphia, and he’s fine but he got four stitches for his trouble, and it looks worse than it is.

 

“Oh, honey,” Bittle says when the Skype call connects. 

 

Jack smiles, tight lipped and with the full knowledge that it doesn’t fully meet his eyes. “Hey.”

 

Bittle grimaces. “Have you been icing it?”

 

Jack nods. “Yes,” he says. “It looks worse than it is.”

 

“How many stitches?” Bittle asks, his eyes narrowed at Jack.

 

“Three,” Jack lies. He doesn’t know why, but it isn’t important. It’s a white lie, nothing that matters. Nothing that Bittle could hear about. Three just sounds better than four. It’s an easy way to downplay the throbbing in Jack’s temple but still enough to cover the tightness of his throat. 

 

Bittle tilts his head at Jack, and then nods. Smiles softly. Bittle is the kindest thing that Jack has ever touched, and Jack will never deserve him. Bittle asks, “Does it hurt?”  
  


Jack shakes his head. No. “Not all the time,” he says. It’s only been a few hours. But no, not all the time. “I’m sure it’ll be good as new in no time.”

  
  
  


 

 

 

And then there are other times, Bittle’s voice soft on the other side of the phone, when it’s easy. When it’s the easiest thing Jack has ever done. Brainless and hopeless and fucking amazing, because Bittle laughs at Jack’s jokes and he whispers when he thinks he’s saying something rude, and Jack loves him. Loves him stupid. Senseless and reckless and wonderful.

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

Bittle comes up with a few of his teammates, and Jack struggles when he has to introduce them as his old team, but not as much as he thought he would. He’s nervous until he manages to pull Bittle around a corner and away from prying eyes. Jack has to lean down to kiss him, but Bittle stands on his tiptoes. Jack crowds him against the wall, kisses him by pressing their mouths together hard. It’s dangerous and idiotic but it’s what Jack needs, has needed since the last time they were together. He pulls back just far enough to avoid suffocating, breathes into Bittle’s mouth, his hands framing Bittle’s face. Bittle’s fingers are pressed hard into Jack’s shoulders, and Jack blinks his eyes open slowly, steps back, drops his hands and pulls away.

 

“Sorry,” he says. Bittle wipes his hand over his mouth and shakes his head.

 

“It’s--” He exhales hard, then smiles up at Jack, a bit shy. “It’s fine.”

 

“I missed you,” Jack says, and it’s not enough, never could be, but it’s better than nothing. “We should get back,” he says. He wants to take Bittle’s hand, but doesn’t. Can’t.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

Jack is tired of trying to be better than everyone. He can’t change anything, really. Has no control over the shitshow of his own life beyond what he says and what he does and how he holds himself. He misses his mom, has been carrying homesickness around in his chest since he was a kid. He likes his apartment but he’s afraid to call it home. The kitchen is too small and there’s too much empty space in the closet. There’s a farmer’s market on Sunday mornings but he’s never gone to it, wants to take Bittle anyway. Doesn’t know if that will ever happen.

 

Bittle’s season is going well; he’ll probably get the C next year, he’s doing well with his classes and Jack tries to be good to him as much as he can. He tries to remember little things that Bittle mentions, wants to put the pieces of Bittle’s life together to get a full picture. He wants to know everything and he wants to hold that close to his chest and never let it go.

 

He wants it to be easier than this.

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

Poots says, “When’s your girl gonna come down?”

 

Jack says, “Huh?” Poots raises his eyebrow at Jack and Jack says, “Oh.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

 

Poots nods sagely. “Sucks,” he says. He claps Jack on the shoulder. “Girls, man.”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says, for a lack of something better. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

In Vegas, they go to shoot out. Jack scores, but so does Kent, and then the Falconers fall behind, drop it. Kent won’t look Jack in the eye, and Jack doesn’t know what it means that he wishes that Kent would. Doesn’t know what he would say if he were able to get that far.

 

Jack wants to know what it means that there are so many different ways to love someone. It’s not fair, the way his heart holds onto everything. He doesn’t know how to change, doesn’t know how much he wants to--he wants to keep caring about people the same way, but it hurts so much to miss them. 

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

Weekes has been trying to start shit since they hit the ice. The Falcs are up by one and there’s barely ten minutes left in the third, and it’s stupid, but Jack is tired. A long game at the tail end of a long road trip. The time change is wearing on him. He misses Bittle. 

 

There’s no excuse, it’s a stupid move, but he’s moving before he knows it. Weekes checks Jack into the boards, gets in Jack’s face and says, “Still tired from suckin’ the refs dick all night?”

 

Jack has cruelty coursing through his blood, and none of this shit is really new to him. He’s said worse, thought worse. Jack says, “Why? You wanna be next, faggot?” He shoulders Weekes away, moves to skate away.

 

“Don’t let your boyfriend hear you offering that up,” Weekes says, and Jack’s stomach plummets. Jack doesn’t blink, doesn’t think. He turns back around before he drops his gloves.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

“What’d he say?” Bittle asks.

 

Jack has an icepack resting against his face, is staring up at stucco on his ceiling, trying to find a pattern. “Nothing important,” Jack says, his heart in his throat.

 

“Your first fight,” Bittle says, and he sounds almost fond. Jack’s mouth still tastes like blood and metal, and he hates himself more than a little bit. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

 

“Nothing’s broken,” Jack says.

 

“Lucky, considering that guy is like, a literal giant.”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Guess so.” He presses the ice pack into his nose, hard, and it hurts, springs tears to his eyes. He deserves it. 

 

“Jack,” Bittle says, suddenly quiet, and it’s full of love but it isn’t very soft. He’s worried about Jack, Jack knows. He doesn’t know how to ask. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

 

Jack breathes heavily for a minute and says, “I fucking miss you.” He wipes at his eyes.

 

“I wish I could be there.”

 

“Me too,” Jack says. He wishes it were easier. Wishes he were braver. Wishes a million little things were different. He doesn’t regret this weird, stupid love they’ve found themselves in, wants to hold onto it, but he wishes it wasn’t always so hard.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

Jack wakes up to a text that says,  _ Morning <3 _

 

Jack responds,  _ good morning _ , because he has a swollen face and a half-broken heart, but Bittle is the only thing he really has to lose, and he doesn’t want that. Doesn’t think he’s ever going to want that. He wishes it were easier but he isn’t ready for that, and it’s going to be hard until he learns to bite the bullet.

  
  


Jack can’t pick and choose, can’t have the life he really wants to have without feeding himself to the wolves. He adds on,  _ i love you _ , because it’s true, and because it has to be enough.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
